


Decaying

by lostinadream (starblessed)



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-02-23 06:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13183956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/lostinadream





	1. Chapter 1

There was no prelude, no moment to breathe before the world turned sideways. Louise Morabita burst through the apartment door and shut it quick behind her. Breathless, she slammed herself back against it. Her entire body was tense. Strands of bobbed red hair clung to sweat-stark temples. When she turned towards her sister, eyes wide as dinner plates stood out in a slate-white face.

“You ain’t gonna believe this,” Louise declared. “The Antonetti boy died this morning.” 

It was Mary Morabita’s second cup of coffee that morning. She’d already fed the Baby, fixed the older children breakfast, dressed and washed everyone for the day — while wondering all the while about the ruckus going on outside. The hallway sounded like any ordinary morning, at first; an hour later, it was a zoo. Yet this was all before nine o’clock, and Mary was a single mother of three. Any inquisitive inclinations would just have to wait until she was properly caffeinated. So, Mary did not look, and didn’t dwell on the din outside. 

The return of her sister brought all the answers she did not want. At this time of the morning, Mary was not looking for bad news, nor equipped to process it. She set her coffee mug down with a thud that echoes through the kitchen.

“You’re lying,” she exclaimed, waiting for Louise to crack a smile that didn’t come. “Oh, not that nice boy!”

“That’s the one.” Louise’s eyes shone with the sort of repressed exhilaration that came with experiencing something awful from a distance. It was the same gleam she got when she read about murders in the newspaper, or picked upone of those tabloids filled with starlots and scandals. Horror lingered in her face, too, but it was a distant kind. They were not friends with the boy, after all; they barely knew him. The loss was as personal as reading about someone dying in a book, or seeing it on a moving picture screen… except in this case, the star players lived right across the hall.

Louise pushed herself off the door, stepping forward into the kitchen. One high-heeled black shoe braced itself against the doorframe. A warning glance from Mary sent her shrinking back into obedience.

“Just this morning?” demanded the uninformed sister. “What time?”

Louise relished the chance to tell such a sordid tale. “Early. The police are here now. They’re talking to Miss Julia, taking statements. I guess they gotta take the body away, too.”

Mary hastily shushed her sister, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder. Their apartment was tiny, and sound travelled fast. In the other room, she could hear Marco and Flora shrieking over some game they were playing. The Baby gurgled in his crib in the corner of the kitchen, reaching one tiny hand between the bars.

Her children were so small, still growing.

How on earth could she explain death to them? Allowing the foul rot of loss to taint innocence could be nothing but a sin.

The thought of the Antonetti boy lost left her feeling queasy. Mary hung her head, fingers tightening around her mug. “This is a tragedy,” she declared. “How old was he again?”

“Eighteen. Just turned it this spring.”

 _“Dio lo benedica.”_ Mary crossed herself. “Such a sin.”

“Such a crime,” agreed Louise. For the first time in ages, she did not seem at all insincere. Exhilarating as a death in the building might be, it was still a real person lost; someone they knew, however in passing. A tragedy, indeed.

Mary did not know the Antonetti boy well, but she could have recognized him anywhere. _Sam_ , they called him, long-limbed and lean, with curls like black velvet cut short upon his head. No one could deny he was handsome; his youth almost made up for it. A typical Italian boy, he was —- bold, cheerful, always armed with a quick smile and a shred of wit. Sam Antonetti wasn’t afraid of anything.

(One spring afternoon, Mary knocked a flowerpot from her windowsill. It tumbled and shattered on the sidewalk below  --- just inches from where the Antonetti boy sat, reading his paper. He looked up and laughed, so loud that it echoed like thunder off the tenement buildings around them. Death and all his friends were but passing acquaintances to him, ones he scoffed at.)

“And poor Julia?” Mary asked, raising her coffee to her lips. “How is she bearing it?”

“Sobbing into the bull’s arms. Could barely hold herself up.”

“ _Oddio_.” Mary closed her eyes for a moment. For the Julia Antonetti _she_ knew to shatter, this loss had to be devastating.

What could anyone expect? He was her only brother, after all  — and Sam was certainly the life of the house. Julia never married, never had any kids. Sam moved in with his spinster sister under the pretense of “taking care” of her. Really, he seemed glad for the freedom, and Julia just happy to have company. Her existence was lonely enough... until her exuberant brother pushed the door open.

When Sam first got sick, Julia doted on him. The entire building knew it; they all saw her, rushing back and forth from _Morris’s Groceries_ , arms laden with medicines and soups for him. She did all she could; whenever the boy’s condition showed signs of improving, Julia left the apartment looking years younger. When he was in a grave place, she seemed centuries older than thirty years should allow.

What would it do to Julia, losing her brother to such a sudden illness? (After all, everything happened so _fast_. Sam was sick for only… two weeks? Three?)

Mary set her mug down on the counter, and made a decision. She was properly caffeinated; her children had their aunt to take care of them. She was going to cross the hall and check on Julia.

“Where are you going?” demanded Louise as her sister rose from the table. Mary gave no answer. She simply slid a plate of fresh anisette cookies off the counter, and turned to the door.

“I’m going to visit Julia,” she declared. “She’s got to be tearing herself apart.”

“You can’t go over there! The police are with her now!”

“The police?” Mary’s voice was sharp as a blade, cutting just as deep. In his crib, the Baby stirred. “What do the police want her for?"

Louise shrugged, feet shuffling against the tile floor. “The kid is dead. They’re worried… well, they want to make sure they know the facts.”

Mary’s lips pressed into a thin line. Julia Antonetti just lost her brother, and now she was being interrogated? “What a sin,” she muttered again, shaking her head. “That poor, poor girl.”

No force on earth could stop her now  --- and none, not even Louise, would be foolish enough to try. Before her sister could say a word, she pulled the front door open and strode out into the hallway.

The sight that greeted her was one to steal her breath away — though it was exactly as expected. On the other side of the hallway, three apartments down, the Antonetti door stood wide open. Braced against the doorframe stood the somber figure of Miss Julia Antonetti  — gaunt, slim, eyes downcast to the hallway floor. The police officer before her spoke in a low voice, head bowed; Miss Julia did not look up at him. Usually, she was neat as a pin, put together down to the last strand of hair. Now her bun was wild, black locks flying unrestrained about her face. She looked like the weeping Llorona, burdened by grief like lead weights around her waist. Pressed between her folded white hands, Mary realized with a start, was a Bible.

 _Oddio_ , the poor woman.

She took two steps down the hallway, then stopped. Julia pressed a hand to her mouth, covering up a sudden crack in composure; her shoulders hunch in on themselves as she fights off a sob. At once, it became clear that the neighbor was intruding on a very personal moment.

She wasn’t the only one.

_“Sam!”_

Mary only had the chance to turn on her heel before a figure sprinted around the corner at the far end of the hallway. The appearance of the newcomer was striking. Clothed in a modest peach gown, with golden curls cascading about her head in a cloudy halo, the girl brought the sun with her. The heavy curtain of gloom hanging in a over the hallway was forced to split apart, just to allow her through. She did not hesitate — running as fast as her legs could carry her, and screeching to a halt in the middle of the hall only when she spotted the commotion near the end.

She drank in the scene with wide, startled blue eyes  — from Julia in the hallway, the police officer, to the grim-faced neighbor lingering to the side.

“Oh, Clare,” Mary said — for this girl was not a stranger, but a very familiar face. “You need to go home.”

Clare Jordan stood her ground as if paralyzed. Her gaze stayed locked on the open hallway door; she did not move, even when Mary stepped towards her.

“But — what —“ Pale lips fluttered like curtains in the wind, straining for something — anything — certain to latch onto. “Something’s happened?”

“Go home, _bambina_. Your auntie needs you now.” Mary tried to lay a hand on the girl’s arm. Clare did not acknowledge it. “There’s nothing you can do here.”

“He can’t be.” The words escaped in a whisper. Just for a second, that shocked gaze wavered, squeezing shut with a tremor. When she opened them again, tears turned crystalline eyes glassy. “He _can’t_.” 

“I’m sorry, my dear. So sorry.” 

“ _No!_ ” This time, it was a sob. The single word reverberated with a thousand meanings — tragedy too great to be imagined, packed into the single exclamation. A full-body shudder ran through Clare’s small frame, her head hunched forward to hide her face. “No — please! Oh god!” 

“Miss?” Her sudden outburst attracted the attention of the officer; he dared to stray from his grieving witness’ side. “Is everything alright?” 

“She’s fine, she’s fine, just shocked —“ Mary tried to wave the officer off, but it was difficult when she found herself suddenly supporting a tray of cookies and a girl two seconds from collapsing. Clare sunk into the one-armed embrace, body wracked by silent sobs. Her shoulders trembled; her chest heaved. It was all she could do to hold herself up. 

No man on earth nor god in heaven could blame her. What agony must it be to lose the love of your life? 

(If such a thing could be said about _teenage love,_ that is — but Clare was young enough, sweet enough, and cared so deeply about the boy that Mary did not hesitate.) 

“It’s alright, _tesora_. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” She could only mutter soothing comfort into the crown of Clare’s head. If the girl could hear her was its own question; whether the words had any effect, even moreso. Yet the only thing more devastating that witnessing Sam’s sister fighting back tears was the girl he loved falling to hysterics in the hallway. 

“I take it the young lady knew the deceased,” said the officer — as if this wasn’t obvious. Mary shot him a sharp look, pulling Clare closer to her chest. 

“He was her beau. They were in love.” 

The use of past tense sent a ripple of pain through the sobbing girl. She cringed inward, letting out a whimper. Mary pressed a hand to the side of the crumpled girl’s head, as if trying to shelter her from the storm. 

“I’m terribly sorry, Miss,” said the officer, pulling off his hat. He looked truly regretful; Mary could credit him for that, at least. “These things are real tragedies, just awful… but, well… it’s only natural, I’m afraid. Nothing you can do about death.” 

“That’s where you’re wrong, officer.” 

The new voice sliced through the chaos as easily as a red-hot butter knife. Sharp and sound, with a coolness that undermined Clare’s hysterics, it flipped the tense atmosphere on its head. As footsteps echoed through the long hallway, the police officer stood at  attention. Mary peered over Clare’s head to regard the newcomers. 

Her heart stuttered. Striding down the hall were three men, broad and imposing, in coats and badges that marked them as police… but they were not regular officers. There was nothing _ordinary_ about them. One glance told Mary that this group was very important, and had come there for a purpose.

The leader of the small group — a man who summoned all the attention in the room without demanding it — made clear just what this purpose was when he held up a paper. This he pressed into the officer’s hands, allowing him to read it over, before briskly stealing it back.

The officer’s eyes had grown wide. He gazed at the newcomers as if they’d all sprouted new heads, and only he could see them; or as if he’d just been informed he was to teach dragons how to fly at noon.  “What? Detective —“

 “I can’t say for sure, Officer Hart,” said the man, “but if this letter tells the truth, then this case is not a normal death. And something can certainly be done about murder.”

 _Murder_ . The word rang like a gunshot. With it’s impact, the snowglobe that seemed to encapsulate the entire hall in its own nightmarish bubble shattered. Invisible glass rained down on top of Mary’s head as that one word shrieked it’s ghoulish symphony in her ears: _murder, murder, murder_.

Poor Julia Antonetti slumped against the doorway to her apartment. In Mary’s arms, young Clare had gone utterly still.

“Murder?” echoed the police officer, flabbergasted. “Sir, it just seems like —“

“I know how it _seems_ ,” declared the detective. “We’re not here to judge how it seems, we’re here to get to the bottom of this. Someone believes that a boy was just murdered; and if that’s true, someone must have done it.”

Somewhere in the world, a pin dropped, a gun rapport rang out; a tree fell. No one in this little drama could hear it, but in that second, all the thunderous collisions of the world echoed in a single breath.

The detective’s sharp gaze locked on Clare, sheltered in Mary’s arms.

“We are here to find out who that is.”


	2. Chapter 2

It was a silent driven away from the apartment complex on East 54th Street.  Four floors above, a boy’s body was being carried out of his home beneath the impenetrable sanctuary of a white sheet. In the small police car, the escorts up front were separated from their passenger by a no-less alienating shield: silence.  
  
It seemed like the thing to do to say _something…_ but neither Detective Lennox, behind the wheel, or Detective Shapiro, next to him, knew what.  They were given no help. Occasionally, the silence hanging like a pall over the car was interrupted by a whimper from the backseat.  Otherwise, the car was choked by it.   
  
This was how flies felt, trapped in an ice cube; frozen in the last cruel echo of their freedom, the rest of the world visible, yet utterly out of reach. Unable to squirm free, to raise its voice in a last dying yell… even to move. Outside of the car, New York City bustled on, ever-oblivious. Inside, silence drowned out the city’s din.   
  
For a man who could scarcely endure the most natural kind of quiet  --- that of an empty room --- Detective Shapiro could not bear it. Yet shattering the silence seemed unforgivable. It would be an assault to the grief that gripped Clare Jordan in it’s razor-toothed maw, grinding down tighter with every stifled sob. No, he could not speak; not in idle small-talk, not in consolation. If he tried, he did not know what would become of Clare.   
  
At last, the spell shattered. As the car reached a street corner, outside of a well-loved grocery store, the young girl in the backseat broke the silence herself with a timid _“stop.”_   
  
The front of _Morris Groceries_ did not stand out from the rest of the shops lining the Yiddish-dominated block. Around it stood laundromats, apartment buildings, and bookstores; a newsstand at the corner of the street proclaimed the day’s headlines in bold print. The sidewalk was well-travelled, but a slew of pedestrians walked by with their heads down or eyes trained straight ahead. Very few of them stopped to take notice of the little grocery store, with its green signpost and bell hanging above the door. It was not a foreboding place, or a uninviting one. _Morris Groceries_ was simply plain.   
  
In some ways, it seemed tired and washed out; in others, it felt familiar. In any case, Clare Jordan looked relieved to see it.   
  
“This is your stop?” Shapiro asked, just for the privilege of saying anything, really. Clare nodded. She settled a hand on the back of the driver’s seat, poised like a bird ready to take flight. Every limb was tense; her swollen eyes were sharp. She could not be more eager to make her escape.   
  
“We just want to say —“   
  
Before the entire sentiment could fly from his lips, Shapiro thought better of it. His lips pursed; Lennox caught his gaze, sharp as a knife. When it became clear that Shapiro, for once in his life, was keeping his mouth shut, his partner rolled his eyes and twisted his large body towards the backseat of the car.   
  
Clare’s unnervingly rapt gaze was fixed on them. Lennox met it head-on.   
  
“We’re sorry,” he said, “for your loss.”   
  
Like butter melting from a pan, the guarded look softened from her face. It was replaced by something gentle, almost warm, too exhausted to be kind.   
  
“Thank you,” Clare murmured. She even seemed to mean it.   
  
Before either of the officers could say another word, the curtain of false tranquility was wrenched away. The light that flooded in afterwards nearly blinded them; it came in the tiny door of Morris Groceries being wrenched open, and a man and woman rushing out on each others’ heels. Without a second’s thought, Clare lunged out of the car to greet them.   
  
“Aunt Sonia! Uncle Morris!”   
  
Clare Jordan's Aunt Sonia was a short, soft-looking woman with blue eyes that mirrored her niece’s own. She had round cheeks, flushed pink in spite of the warm June morning; her hair was cut to her chin in golden waves, beginning to go grey at the roots. Despite the lines of age, her face struck an immediate welcome chord, like a cup of tea after a long day’s work. She was no less earnest than the fierce embrace she enveloped her niece in.   
  
Uncle Morris (of the aforenamed grocery store) struck a far more severe figure. He had a long nose and the sort of brow that remained furrowed in perpetual concern. Rich dark hair had long since began to thin; the bald spot on his head gleamed beneath the sky’s overcast light. Where his wife was small and round, Morris was slender and long-limbed. Though dressed sharply, the plain vest and pants he wore looked too big for him. He regarded the police car with unmasked suspicion.   
  
“There’s been an incident at Cherry Hill Apartments, sir,” Lennox explained shortly. “Your niece was very upset by it.”   
  
“You’ll have to be more explicit, gentleman.” Sensing the officers’ discretion, Morris leaned down close to the window as Sonia continually fretted over their niece. “What sort of _incident?”_   
  
Lennox considered his words for a moment. “Are you acquainted with one Samuel Antonetti?”   
  
A troubled shadow cast across Morris’s long face. He seemed to know what the officer was about to say before he said it. This alone confirmed that he and the dead boy were not strangers.  “I do. Don’t tell me that sickness of his caught up with him?”   
  
“Afraid so, sir. Your niece was distraught when she heard the news; we gave her a drive home.”   
  
“That’s kind of you, gentlemen.” Morris reached out to shake Lennox’s hand. There was not a trace of hesitation, despite the contrast between his light skin and Lennox’s far darker. This was not Harlem, but it was an immigrant neighborhood; a colored NYPD detective could not be the strangest thing the grocer had ever seen.   
  
The sound of his name called Morris’s attention back to his wife, busy ushering their fragile niece inside. Clare no longer wept; instead, she had taken to trembling. Her entire body quaked, like an autumn leaf somersaulting towards the gutter; she leaned heavily against her aunt’s shoulder, her only lifeline in the world. Morris’s expression furrowed in deeper concern. He cast an apologetic glance back at the officers. “I’m needed. If you can stay for a few minutes, there are fresh apple scones upstairs. We’d be happy to share them.”   
  
“That’s really generous, but —“   
  
Detective Shapiro leaned forward, cutting his partner off with a delighted, “We’d love to!”   
  
More motives lingered behind his acceptance than an uncontrollable sugar craving, of course. (Though Shapiro’s sweet tooth was _thrilled_ by the idea of fresh pastry.) As long as Sam Antonetti’s death might be a murder investigation, it was imperative to speak to people who knew him well; with his girlfriend too distraught to help, her guardians seemed like the next best choice.   
  
Morris vanished into the store, ushering his little family. A few moments passed. When he and Sonia reemerged, their niece was nowhere in sight, but their arms were laden with pastry.   
  
“We really have to thank you,” Sonia insisted, pressing a sweet, crumbly tart into Shapiro’s eager hands. “For taking care of our Clare. The poor child is so rattled.”   
  
“Shame about the boy.” Morris looked distinctly uncomfortable with the subject of death. Unfortunately, it seemed to be the order of the day.   
  
“Did you know him well?” Shapiro asked around a mouthful of sweet apple.   
  
“Not well, no. Well enough. He used to stop by nearly every morning — to _buy a popsicle,_ ostensibly. We all knew he just wanted to see my niece. Sometimes, he lingered.” Morris’s lips turned up in a grim smirk. “I put him to work those days, stacking cans as long as he insisted on taking up floor space.”   
  
“He never complained,” chimed Sonia. “He was always happy to help. And to impress Clare, of course. Such a nice boy.” Her bright eyes looked close to spilling over themselves. “Oh, are you _sure_ he’s dead?”   
  
Detectives Lennox and Shapiro exchanged glances; either had any idea how to answer. They’d been to the crime scene. They both saw the body. If Sam Antonetti was not dead, he was a very convincing actor. (Even Douglas Fairbanks would struggle to feign a complete lack of pulse.)   
  
“He is, ma’am,” Detective Lennox answered. “Definitely dead.”   
  
Sonia placed a hand over her mouth. Morris’s own landed on her back, as if determined to shield her from the worst of the shock.   
  
“Exactly how intimate were your niece and Mr. Antonetti?”   
  
The phrasing, if not the question itself, rankled. When the couple went tense, the air between them suddenly felt thicker  -- as if Lennox had drawn an invisible gun, one finger on the trigger. Morris’s lips pressed thin. Sonia’s eyes grew solemn; some of the kindness melted away from her face, like thunder rolling over a cloudless blue sky.   
  
“Not very,” Morris answered. “They’ve known each other for… two months, at most.”   
  
“Not much longer than Clare has been with us,” Sonia chimed in, hand seeking out her husband’s shoulder for support. She was the sort of woman whose anxiety made it impossible to hold still; Morris, meanwhile, remained stolid as stone. “She came to the city a few months ago  --- we were the only ones who could take her in. The last thing that poor girl needs is more grief… with her mother and brother already in one of _those places.”_   
  
“Sanitoriums,” Morris chimed in, to alleviate the detectives’ curiosity. “Her mother is up at Cresson. Eddie is thirteen, so they sent him to Barrow House.”   
  
“Tuberculosis.” Shapiro’s eyebrows crept up.   
  
“It’s been very hard on Clare… but she’s been so good. Never causes any trouble, never starts any arguments…”   
  
Sonia swallowed. Her eyes flickered towards Morris, as if she dared not speak her next words without confirmation that they wouldn’t burn her lips. Morris tilted his head. Perhaps he encouraged her to speak her mind; or perhaps he urged her to be careful what she said. After a moment, Sonia went on. “We knew Sam was good for her. He got Clare out of the house, kept her from worrying so much about her family. He… gave her life. There was no one more alive than that boy. _Wild,_ almost.”   
  
“I wouldn’t say that,” Morris murmured. His wife shrugged.   
  
“I was wary of him at first, but he could win people over. That was the Sam Antonetti we knew.”   
  
If Morris disagreed with anything his wife said, he did not voice it. He only regarded the detectives calmly, with all the self-possession of a man determined not to appear vulnerable.  “Whatever happened to that boy, Clare is rattled by it.” He frowned, chewing over his next words for a long moment. “She’s a bold girl. She doesn’t look it, but she is. And she’s known too much tragedy in her life.”   
  
Aunt Sonia squeezes his arm. She no longer looked at the detectives, keeping her gaze trained on the black straps of her shoes. Somehow, this was more disconcerting than any detail that could have left their lips; seeing a warm, open woman evert her eyes left the Detectives unsettled in ways too vague to explain. Shapiro’s palms prickled with invisible tension, like pinpricks dancing along his skin.   
  
“Is that all, detectives?” Nerves had crept their way into the gentle corners of Sonia’s smile. “We need to take care of our girl.”   
  
“Of course,” Shapiro replied, offering the couple a warm smile. “Do what you need to. Make sure she’s alright.”   
  
“Thank you,” said Sonia  --- and as an afterthought, already hurrying away, “thank you very much.”   
  
Morris’s eyes lingered on the car until his wife vanished inside. He bobbed his head once before closes the grocery door behind him; a lean silhouette remained visible in the window for a brief moment before slipping away.   
  
Exchanging only glances, the detectives setting back out on their silent drive. Neither one wanted to read too deeply into the encounter. Neither one, in the natural vigilance of their profession, could help it.   
  
When Clare Jordan stepped into the safety of her home, the entire story must have poured out in a rush — from the moment she collapsed in the hallway to being escorted home by two detectives. Homicide detectives, investigating the possibility of her boyfriend being murdered.   
  
There was no reason to suspect Clare of anything, but the unnerving sense that her aunt and uncle were holding something back still clung to the detectives. The further they got from the little grocery store, the more definite they became. Morris and Sonia were frightened.   
  
They should have no reason to fear for their niece… unless Clare Jordan had something to hide.

* * *

Many women of more emotional inclinations would have fallen to pieces under such fraught circumstances. To Lieutenant Robert Hughes Cross’s greatest relief, Julia Antonetti was not a hysterical woman.  
  
The sister suddenly bereft of a brother moved soundlessly through the kitchen; watching her was fascinating, like an intrusion upon a private world. Her small feet made no noise against the tiled floor; she cleared tea dishes from the table without a slight clatter of porcelain. In the time since her brother’s body was taken away, she’d had time to recollect herself. Her hair was combed into place once again; dark eyes remained downcast, but her face was a mask of calm. The only indication that only that morning she had endured an earth-shattering tragedy was the slight tremor in her hands as she placed the teacups down in the sink.   
  
“I just... can’t imagine it. _Murder,”_ she said. Somehow, hearing her the word spoken out loud was startling. The tentative calm over the room cleared away like smoke. All pretense was shattered. There could no longer any room for sympathy, for small talk or consolation. Nothing was left to do but meet the grieving woman’s eyes; the Lieutenant did so without hesitation.   
  
“We don’t know anything yet, ma’am. Nothing at all.”   
  
“You know my brother is dead.”

The Lieutenant’s mouth pressed into a straight-lined smile. “Indeed,” he replied. “We do.”

Lieutenant Robert Hughes Cross was a man of principle. During his twenty years as an NYPD detective, he built his reputation on playing by-the-book. He was not a firebrand cop who drew his pistol at the slightest provocation. Hughes was careful. He did not antagonize. He never made a spectacle of himself. When he disliked something, he did not question it; he simply worked around it. Hughes was the sort of man who thought about everything, analyzed it deeply, and already had his own conclusions mapped out before sharing them with anyone.  
  
This made him an exceptional detective.   
  
He was well-known for his ability to solve whatever case fell into his lap; even more renowned was his way with people. Hughes had no impressive social graces, but he had the ability to read people — not only that, but to understand them. Some called it intuition, others called it observation. Whatever gave Lieutenant Cross a particular insight into the human mind, it was a large part of the reason he made it so far in his career. An ace sleuth was a credit to the force, but a detective who understood people was an even greater asset.   
  
In his typical way, Lieutenant Cross was already assessing Julia Antonetti.

The sister of the dead boy was not widowed, but a spinster; she had just broken thirty, and was living alone. Her apartment was compulsively neat, yet homey. Her countenance was far less friendly. Julia Antonetti was the sort of woman who guarded herself against the world; if the lash of her tongue did not ward off brave or foolish interlopers, her stolid countenance would do the job. Whatever little affected her, she did not allow it to show through; she swallowed her own emotions down like bitter medicine and allowed them to curdle inside of her. Julia was straightforward, respectable, and composed.

Julia also wanted to know what happened to her brother.

Lieutenant Cross straightened out a dish of sugar cubes, pushing it across the table for Julia to return to the cupboard. He watched her do so; each movement was robotic, carefully controlled. Once the chore was done, she turned to him again. Her eyes searched for any indication of truth; Cross decided to give her exactly what she was looking for. 

“We also know someone sent an anonymous letter to the police station, adamant that foul play was the cause of his illness.”  
  
The letter was delivered hours too late; by the time it fell into Lieutenant Cross’s hands, Sam Antonetti had been dead since dawn. There was nothing anyone could have done; indeed, if the letter’s contents were true, even hours would not have made any difference. Poison is a fickle villain, but all the more cunning for its unpredictable nature. It creeps into the body like a breath of air, determined that the next exhale should be the person’s last.   
  
Sam Antonetti’s last breath was a wheeze; he died choking, lungs and chest seized up, leaving him no room to breathe. When his body was taken away, blood spattered across his pillow like crimson stars against a snowy sky; it pooled under his mouth, leaving cruel stains at the corners of his lips. His eyes were wide open, shot through with red. According to his sister, he was caught in the grips of a seizure; then, all at once, it just stopped. His hands clawed into the sheets until his final spasming heartbeat.   
  
Something about seeing that young man lifeless in bed called to mind Icarus, seconds after his impact with earth. There was a determination in his dead face; it stood in testament to his ferocious battle. Sam Antonetti _wanted to live._ He fought for it to his last moment; but he flew too close to the sun, and once his wings melted away, could only fall.   
  
_Murder,_ hissed the letter, _with poison to blame._   
  
Poison upon colorless lips; poison spattering his pillow; poison in the agonized twist of his face, the desperate wrench of his hands. Poison, and a boy was dead because of it.   
  
If the letter spoke true, Lieutenant Cross would find out why. More vitally, he would uncover who.   
  
Julia Antonetti’s white hands gripped the back of her kitchen chair like a lifeline. Her black eyes flickered to the empty seat, then back to Cross. Just days ago, she and her brother must have sat across from each other, making light conversation over breakfast. Now, she would never look upon her brother’s face again, and a homicide detective sat in his place.

“Why don’t you know who wrote the letter?” she asked, her voice soft and even.   
  
“It wasn’t signed.”   
  
“Were they trying to keep their identity a secret?”   
  
“That’s the usual motivation of an unsigned letter.”   
  
“They must have something to hide.” Julia’s lips pressed into a thin line; her eyes flickered to the thin envelope, unassuming in the center of the table. Just for a second, she looked possessed by the urge to reach out and grab it. “Can I really not---”   
  
“I’m sorry, Ms. Antonetti. The letter must remain confidential.” He told her this before; hearing the point reiterated made Julia’s shoulders slump.   
  
“You need to tell me _something._ My brother is dead, someone is calling it murder, and if I’m a suspect ---”   
  
“No one said you were.”   
  
Julia waved the dismissal away like an obnoxious gnat. “I am the closest person in the world to him, and the only one here at the time of his death. Of course I’m a suspect.” Sliding into the empty chair with all the self-possession her grief allowed, Julia leaned forward.  “Please, Inspector. I’m at my nerves’ end. Tell me what it says.”   
  
Lieutenant Cross heaved a sigh. It was cruel to leave the strained sister in the dark. He could divulge only what was allowed; this he related to Julia in low tones. The letter came too late, named no names, but gave _poison_ as Sam’s cause of death.   
  
At the word, Julia turned to stone. Emotion shriveled and drained out of her face; her eyes widened, ever-minutely. The tension of her hands, folded primly in front of her, grew close to bone-shattering. She inhaled a deep breath, and exhaled something far more shallow.   
  
“Poison,” she murmured. Her eyelids fluttered.   
  
“Are you alright, Miss Antonetti?” Cross was on his feet in a second, ready to catch the woman if she chose to faint. After the morning’s trials, he would not blame her.   
  
Julia held up a hand instead, shaking her head, and took a visible moment to recollect herself. The shock of her brother’s death was one great blow, but the notion that he was poisoned is another. It knocked the breath from her lungs; by the time she managed to regain it, the shadow of decades had crept upon her.   
  
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, shielding a haggard face in her palm. “This is all… so much. Sam murdered… with poison.” She let out a tiny laugh, like the crackle of dry leaves crushed against concrete. “It could only have been her after all. I didn’t want to think it was.”   
  
Lieutenant Cross leaned forward. “Miss?”   
  
When Julia lifted her head again, she no longer embodied the grieving older sister; instead she was Athena, sternness and solemnity, without a waver of doubt. Her cool black eyes were eerily grim; in the cracks spiderwebbing across her bitten lips, vengeance twisted in a tangle of scarlet threads. She bared her teeth; it was not a smile, but a resolution.   
  
“When the people we love care about someone… we want to believe the best of them.”   
  
Slowly, Cross sat back down again. “Miss Antonetti, if you have a suspicion  ---”   
  
“It is not a suspicion. I _know_ who killed my brother.”   
  
Julia Antonetti folded her hands in front of her, and dropped her head again for just a moment. Her brows contorted; yet when she lifted her gaze to meet Cross’s again, she did not waver.   
  
“Yesterday, Sam was doing well  --- enough that I felt comfortable leaving him for a little while. We were running out of milk, so I thought I’d step out to the store. I wasn’t gone more than half an hour…”

* * *

  
_The door opened without even a slight resistance of the lock; that was the moment Julia Antonetti knew something was wrong._

_She never left the house without locking the door behind her — and asked from her key, only two people on earth had one. The landlady was on vacation; and the thought of her brother letting himself out of the apartment was absurd, because last she saw of him, Sam could not get out of bed._

_Alarm flooded her mouth, a cloying Natalia taste which nearly choked her. Julia’s hand tightened around the doorknob. After a single second to catch her breath, she forced the door open._

_Where an hour ago is was not present, a heaviness now hung over the apartment. The hallway stretching from the door seemed darker, narrow at its ends and sharper in its corners. Inhaling a deep breath left Julia feel as if she were being smothered._

_From her brother’s room, at the end of the hall, someone was screaming._  

_It was not a normal scream, of fright or surprise. These screams lingered on the cusp of nightmares; they were the stuff of hazy, half-awake panic, when the monster lingers at the foot of your bed, glaring at you from the dark. Her brother’s voice was unmistakeable; over it, in higher, more determined tones, a stranger urged him to hold still._

_Panic gripped Julia like a vice, crushing her ribs in its relentless hold. She hastily set her armful of groceries down on the kitchen counter, rushing to her brother’s sickroom without pausing to take a breath. The terror in his cries was enough to inspire panic, if the thought of a_ stranger _in their house didn’t do that job nicely. Her hasty steps faltered at the wide-open door; the scene inside was enough to paralyze her._  

_There was Sam, in bed and thrashing as of the devil were upon him. His face was twisted into a ghoulish grimace; his hands clawed at the air, fighting off invisible demons. Fever-glazed eyes reeled around the room, flying from one wall to another before he could take anything in; the sickness made him blind._

_Leaning over him, a young woman was forcing him to drink._

_The glass at his lips wavered, but splashed no liquid onto the blankets around him. Sam swallowed in short, breathless gulps, gagging and howling. His head twisted to get away, but she would not allow it. The woman held him down, one hand pressing against the chest, and urged him to drink over his screams._

_For the briefest second, there was silence. The glass was drained; Sam fell back against the pillows; and Clare Jordan turned just enough to spot her aghast audience._

_“You,” she said, voice icy. “What are you doing here?”_

_The spell of shock was broken. Julia advanced on the intruder, hands balled into tense fists at her side. “Why are you in my house?” she demanded. “Why are you harassing a poor sick boy?”_

_“Don’t you dare look at me like a monster.” Clare’s lips curled back in a furious snarl. “I’m here because you weren’t.”_

“Leave,” _Julia demanded. Clare tilted her head back._

_“I’ll go. It won’t make a difference. Do you think he belongs to you? You’re wrong. He isn’t yours. He never was.”_

_Sam was her brother, of course, but he was more than that; Sam was all Julia had. He supported her, protected her, kept her company when she needed it most. In her little world, spun from glass and porcelain, he was burnished steel. Everything about him encouraged her to live… and reminded her that she would never be alone._

_Clare advanced, like a viper ready to strike. Julia lashed out before she could._

_The girl’s head recoiled back with the force of the slap. Clare’s eyes widened. She lifted a hand to her stinging cheek, a minute tremble in her fingers._

_The world was silent as death._

_“You’ll see,” Clare finally whispered, burning gaze locked into Julia’s proud form. “If he gets any worse, blood will be on your hands. It will be the end of you. You’ll see.”_

_Clare cast one final glance at Sam, shivering in bed, before striding last Julia out of the room._

_The apartment rattled as the door slammed shut behind her — but the empty glass remained standing on Sam’s bedside table. )_

* * *

The tale hung in the air for one terrible moment. Then a sharp gasp ripped itself from her chest; Julia clapped a hand over her mouth, struggling to hold herself together. “It was her!”  
  
Something cool and calm was settling over Cross, a stark contrast to Julia’s raw emotion. “Do you know what she forced him to drink?”   
  
“It was something murky… I could have sworn something was mixed in. I don’t know what it was, and Sam was too far gone to say. He was in agony for the next few hours… vomiting, trembling… then the convulsions came. And then... ”   
  
Finally, the long-awaited sob came; and after that, Julia could not stop herself.   
  
_“My brother is dead!”_   
  
The coldest certainty of a detective was realizing their assumptions were just that  --- the dawning of harsh fact over the gentle outlines of appearance, casting them into light that reveals them ugly and malformed. Truth was the grim reality of a detective’s job, and the steps to finding it rarely followed precise pattern.   
  
Sometimes, the truth could be buried under the gentlest of appearances. Sometimes, it was handed up like a gift.   
  
Detective Cross could yet know nothing for certain. He believed, however, in something terrible: the truth of Sam Antonetti’s death now lay between a dead boy and a girl shattered like porcelain across a hallway floor.


	3. Chapter 3

Clare Jordan went quietly.

Only two hours after detectives dropped her off outside her family’s modest grocery store, the police car pulled up once again. Clare seemed to be waiting for them. She lingered in the store window, gazing out at the street with shadowed, solemn eyes; when the officers stepped onto the curb, she did not look surprised.

Only when detectives Shapiro and Lennox entered the shop did her composure at all rattle. She fumbled over her own feet as she moved to the side of the counter. Morris already manned the helm at the store’s register.

“Gentleman. A fine thing to see you back so early.”

“That it is,” agreed Lennox —- but his gaze was fixed on Clare. The girl met his eyes without flinching; in that moment, the purpose of their visit dawned. They were there for her. Surprise betrayed itself across her face like a bolt of lightning; something flared in her eyes, a hint of that feral desperation that had surfaced in the apartment hallway. She made no attempt to run, however, when Lennox politely explained that they would be taking Miss Clare Jordan for questioning in relation to a suspicious death.

“Clare? You want Clare?”

“No, there must be some mistake.”

Behind the shock, a thin sheen of horror glossed over Clare’s face; yet she kept her composure for all the time it took to close her eyes and draw a breath. “It’s alright,” she said, over her aunt and uncle’s protests. “I understand.”

She returned to her police escort, and was led out of the shop without trouble. The door of the police car closed lightly behind her. For the second time that day, another enduringly-silent ride was endured; this time, Clare’s stoicism compelled, rather than suffocated.

By the time they arrived at the station, formalities had already been set into motion. There was no official murder investigation. The anonymous note, however, was reason enough to classify Sam Antonetti’s death suspicious. The youth’s body had already been shipped up to the medical examiner’s office. There he would be autopsied, and a cause of death would be determined. Whether a sudden decline in health was responsible for his untimely demise, or something more sinister, all would be uncovered in due time.

For now, all they could do was wait. Wait, wonder, and puzzle over the unassuming young woman accused of murder.

Detectives Shapiro and Lennox huddled around Lieutenant Cross’s desk. The anonymous note sat between them. They both pored over it, pondering much and saying little. Both were uneasy for their own reasons. The note was too vague. The case was too unsubstantial. They did not yet know enough to make any arrests — but the tale of an intruder forcing poison down an ailing boy’s throat remained too compelling to ignore.

Every detail in the note substantiated Julia’s story. Sam Antonetti, of 1455 Cherry Street apartments, was poisoned to death. Julia witnessed Clare forcing Sam to drink an unidentified liquid. Clare had the opportunity to poison Sam; but what means, and what motive?

“She lives above a grocery store,” Shapiro point out. “Plenty of poisons to choose from there. A few spoonfuls of cleaning fluid… an ounce of rat killer…”

“Shapiro, I’m sure your dinner plans can wait,” Lieutenant Cross announced, coming up behind the two detectives. “Unless you’ve been struck by a craving.”

Shapiro straightened up like a gun fired next to his ear; flustered, he quickly deferred to his senior agent. “No, sir! I was just — we were considering the murder weapon, sir.”

“ _ If _ we have a murder.” Lennox saw no reason to scramble away from Cross’s desk, so didn’t. He and the Lieutenant had known each other for enough years that they were more than comfortable working together. Shapiro, for his nine months on the force, was a relative greenhorn.

“The men at Bellevue will work that out for us. Scientists miss nothing these days.” Frowning to himself, Cross picked up the note, and scanned it over again. He’d gone through it at least a dozen times since opening the envelope that moment; with each read, some new detail jumped out at him. The peculiar way the writer looped their ‘y’s… the way the letter’s tone shifted from factual, to emotional, to conciliatory (its author must be a scholar of  _ logos, pathos, ethos _ ; the art of a fine argument)...

This time, the final lines rang over and over in his head. He repeated them like a sonnet, like a prayer; no matter how many times he strung the words together, they never struck a less-ominous note.

_ Please act quickly! A human life is on the line. Beware: this spider’s web is as toxic as her bite. _

_ Regards, _

_      A Stranger _

Whatever stranger sent this note, they clearly knew something the police did not. Cross’s heavy brows furrowed. He enjoyed knowing things; in temperament as much as profession, he was the type of man who liked to have all information available before him. Lieutenant Cross did not appreciate subterfuge. He especially could not abide by someone deliberately keeping secrets. Nothing kindled his fire more; he became determined to hunt the secrets down, and drag them into the light.

If he could not find this stranger, he would at least figure out exactly what they knew but refused to say. That, after all, was the job of a detective.

The first (and perhaps most crucial) piece of the puzzle sat quietly in the interrogation room. Without commanding a hint of attention, the Lieutenant’s eyes were drawn towards her anyway. He wandered over to the heavy steel door, peering in the window at the unassuming young lady within.

Nothing about Clare Jordan screamed  _ ruthless killer _ . At first glance, she was mild; at second glance, positively boring. Nothing about her features or countenance would spark excitement in thrill-seeking hearts. She did not have a shred of the beauty which artists found muse in; her voice was soft, uninspiring of an orator or performer. She wore a long, modest black dress which covered most of her skin — cutting off in lace at her elbows, and trailing all the way to her ankles. Her hair was an uncombed mess of bouncy golden curls, stopping just at her chin; chewed nails worried at themselves as she flexed her hands before her. Eyes the color of a midsummer sky regarded the closed door with determined composure; her shoulders heaved with a sigh. Now that the shock had worn off, as well as the morning’s early hysteria, very little about Clare captured attention.

Could this  _ really _ be their cold blooded poisoner?

“She might have been jealous,” Shapiro pondered. “If the fella she loved was getting too close to another lady…”

“That’s an angle,” Cross agreed, frowning. In most jealous women, there was a fire shouldering just behind the shields of their eyes; it could flare up at any instant, with the slightest provocation. Clare did not possess this spark of danger. Her eyes were two serene pools, temperance and mindfulness swirling within cerulean pupils. She did not seem like the jealous type.

“Let’s not settle on an angle before we have a crime,” Cross declared, resting a hand over the doorknob. The detectives could go around in circles for as long as they liked. For now, though, there was only one sensible thing to do: talk to Clare Jordan.

The girl shot to attention as the door opened. An alert gaze studied the three detectives who filed into the room; it flickered from one to another, not wavering until the door shut with a heavy noise. There was less air in this tiny room, crowded with many people. It prickled the skin around Cross’s collar, warm enough to suffocate.

At last, Clare’s eyes settled on him. She could tell that Cross was the leader of this merry band; he was also the only man in the room she did not recognize. Using this to his advantage, Cross stepped forward and settled down into the seat across from her.

“Miss Jordan,” he said, stretching a hand across the wooden table. “Lieutenant Robert Hughes Cross. Pleasure to meet you.”

To her credit, Clare did not laugh out loud at the absurd statement. She remained perfectly solemn. Her small hand slipped into Cross’s own, and was instantly swallowed up.

“I wish it were under better circumstances, is all.”

“This isn’t ideal for anyone,” Cross assured her. “We only want to know what has happened.”

“I’m glad,” replied Clare, in her soft, sad voice. “So do I.”

There could be no doubt that the officers behind Cross were not expecting the civility of this exchange. Lennox, used to Cross’s methods, took it in stride. Shapiro did not.

“If this is a murder, it seems like you’re the prime suspect.” He took several steps forward, crossing his arms down at the young woman. “We have a dead body, and witnesses who place you at the Antonetti apartment just yesterday afternoon. Julia Antonetti has quite a story to tell.” Shapiro raised his eyebrows. “Things don’t look good for you.”

Slowly, Clare went tense. The curtain of serenity fluttered, illuminating beyond for just a second. Cross caught the flash of shock in Clare’s eyes, the tight pull of her lips, the way she grew rigid in her chair. Her lips parted in a silent “oh”, without real surprise.

“Let us tell you what we’ve heard,” Cross said; and this is exactly what he did. As he recounted Julia’s story, keen eyes studied Clare for every minute reaction. He wasn’t disappointed. Her face wavered; she faltered, she frowned; and at the moment he mentioned her forcing liquid down Sam’s throat, a gasp caught in her chest.

“Did all of this happen exactly as Miss Antonetti says?” Lennox asked, as soon as the tale came to its end. Clare frowned down at her hands, gnawing on her bottom-lip with the foremost two cream-colored teeth.

“Yes,” she finally admitted. “It did.”

“You were in the Antonetti apartment yesterday afternoon?”

“I was.”

“Why were you there?”

Her hands have a sudden tremor; she buried them in her lap. “I came by to check on Sam… because I was so worried. When I got there, he was in the hallway, delirious; he couldn’t walk any further. I had to help him back to bed, and I just managed to convince him to drink some water when his sister came in.”

She uttered these two words —  _ his sister  _ — with the sort of contempt exterminators use to refer to the rat that got away.

“What happened after she caught you?”

“I left.” Clare blinked up at them, perfectly guileless. “I went home, crying. I know several neighbors saw me go, and my aunt and uncle can confirm I got home in tears. It was… a very difficult day.” Her teeth ground into her lower lip until it turned white. “Today has been worse.”

She was a martyr to her own grief; a madonna, demanding nothing but wringing her hands over the memory of a dead boy. It would be difficult  _ not _ to feel sympathy for this girl, so clearly at war with her own loss. 

Somehow, the officers managed it.

“But you confirm… everything in that testimony happened as Miss Antonetti said?”

Clare pursed her lips until they turned white. Her large eyes swerved from detective to detective. She was a plane flying blind, searching for a field to crash land into. The sight was almost pathetic. 

“She told no lies,” she finally admitted; the words dragged from her lips like molasses. “Things did happen that way.”

This was the most damning testimony she could give on her own behalf. Without any denial, Clare Jordan slid herself neatly into a dangerous position. She was one of the last people to see the young man before he died… and she had the perfect opportunity to poison him.

Wary glances flit between the detectives, none of them sure what to make of the admission. Now they had  _ very good reason  _ to hold Clare, but no crime to charge her with. If murder was indeed committed… their suspect may have just confessed.

“No,” Clare whispered. “I know what you’re thinking… but I never hurt him. I never would. Sam didn’t die because of me, I swear it.”

“You had the opportunity,” replied Shapiro. “Hours after you left him, the boy was dead.”

“I tried to help him.”

“By forcing water down his throat.”

Clare squeezed her eyes shut. Her frustration was mounting; the more tense she grew, the heavier the air in the room seemed to get. The accusatory like of questioning so easily pierces her armor, if only because she could not get her point across. She took a deep breath, held it in for several seconds, and tried again. “ _ No _ . You need to understand. Sam was sick…he was very sick. And he seemed to get sick all at once."

The haunted look in her eyes lended truth to her words. Anyone can fake a story; anyone can shed tears over it; but it is difficult to capture true resignation. At some point, the worst memories in the world become consigned to the past, and there is nothing anyone can do to soothe them. Their time has come and gone. They have become set in stone… if only because the other key player in those recollections is no longer alive. The dead can not soothe; the dead can not forgive; the dead can not regret. The living are left to bear the weight of regrets they can never amend for.

Clare shook her head, frowning intently down at her folded hands, as if memories were scrawled along the lines of her palms. “It took all of us by surprise, because no one expected it… least of all him.”

* * *

_ The moments where she was really able to lose herself came few and far between. Clare was determined to treasure every second — like sucking the sweet nectar from a piece of fruit until there was no flavor left to relish. _

_ When the adrenaline of a party began to carry her away, instead of resisting she went with it. This was the easiest thing to do, and the most rewarding; every so often she would open her eyes in the midst of a sea of people and realize she could not recognize herself. It was like waking from a dream. She did not know this girl, this blonde sprite who laughed freely and danced the night away in young men’s arms. The glowing face reflected back in her champagne flute was a stranger; yet the sober part of Clare, which controlled every action of her day-life, envied her. _

_ Being free was the world’s greatest pleasure. In good spirits and better company, it was easy to imagine that no griefs haunted the waking world. The realm of the party, in its debauchery and extravagance, was all that really mattered. It would not sustain into daylight hours, ephemeral as a dream… yet for those short hours, the party was the entire world. _

_ Clare discovered a new universe, one she never dared imagine before. It was one of bubbling alcohol, stirring jazz music, quick-footed dancers, and a laughing boy with wicked black eyes. _

_ “Clear way for the butler,” Sam announced, steering himself through the crowded room. He precariously balanced multiple drinks in his hands with skill. Sure as a glaring sign on his back, this aptitude marked him a natural dweller of this exotic party realm. _

_ Easily, he passed one drink off to Pearl, tapping her high-heeled toes against the floor; the next drink was sent Hazel’s way, too busy arguing with her brother to glance his way. The last, a pretty pink cocktail, he passed off to Clare. _

_ “I ordered the kind you liked last time,” he declared, smile going crooked at one end. “I remembered. Cherries?” _

_ Clare took a sip, eyes sparkling. “Perfect.” _

_ When Sam laughed, it made the dimple in his cheek stand out. He only had one, but it was entrancing; every time Clare saw it, she was seized by the irrational urge to press her thumb against it, just to feel where soft flesh dipped. (Sam wouldn’t protest, she knew, but she was far too shy to ever do it.) Instead, she just watched him over the rim of her glass, not drinking but lost in the peculiar pleasure of  observation. There was always plenty to watch at a party, but Sam was her favorite subject. _

_ There was a certain energy to him — an electricity, a vitality, like the sea just before a storm. A single glance towards him might not spark interest (he was by no means ugly, though his face grew more striking the longer you looked at it), but Sam captured attention by the neck and refused to relinquish his hold. He could animate a small group without trying, and pulse life through a crowded room. _

_ He was… deliciously alive, in all the ways it counted. _

_ Clare’s eyes raked over him now, searching for that spark of liveliness like a bee seeking out pollen. Slowly, the buzz of party adrenaline faded. Her vision sharpened, locking Sam into focus. The first thing she noticed was that his smile did not reach his eyes. _

_ Sam gave away smiles like casual benedictions, but they were always genuine. He did not wear pleasure as a mask, nor did he hide when he was upset; he’d be no good at it. The sight of emptiness behind dark eyes where by all rights there ought to have been joy struck Clare like a stone to the head. She frowned. The glass in her hand lowered. As her lips pressed together, Sam shifted, and more than one clue suddenly made itself obvious. _

_ He wasn’t smiling at all; as soon as he thought no one was looking, his face went slack and hard. Discomfort was plain in the set of his shoulders, the stiff line of his back… and the hand that lingered, ever so subtly, over his middle. When he shifted, the hand moved with him. Each swallow caused his throat to bob. A thin sheen of sweat glistened along his tanned brow; the party alone was not warm enough to cause it. Eyes darted around the room for a split second, like a restless animal, before landing on Clare once again. _

_ “What’s the matter?” he asked, before Clare could blurt out the same question. “You’ve got a look on your face.” _

_ He looked exhausted, too. When he picked her up earlier that night, Clare paused at the door of his white Renault, frowning; her date looked run-down. Sam promised he just hadn’t gotten much sleep. He wrote off the habitual clearing of his throat every few minutes as the start of a cold, and teased her for worrying so much. _

_ Now, Clare could not  _ help _ but worry. If that made her a fussier than Sam’s grandmother, so be it. Something wasn’t right. _

_ “What look?” she asked, eyes remaining trained on his face.  _

_ Sam sighed, leaning forward; his brows lifted. “You know the one. Where you’re thinking too hard about something, and it’s eating you.” _

_ “I’m not.” _

_ “You are.” _

_ “How can you say  _ I _ think too much, when you let one little look bother you?” _

_ “I didn’t say I was bothered, I just —“ Sam leaned back against the bar, exhaling deeply. His hand kneaded into his stomach over the smooth grey waistcoat. Discomfort had lain siege to his face over the past minute; now, it could not be plainer. He did not meet Clare’s eyes as he spoke. “I wanna make sure you’re alright. That you’re —- having a — good time, and all.” _

Are you?  _ Clare wondered, but held her tongue. _

_ “Of course I am.” Her voice was gentle. She reached out, settling one hand on her date’s shoulder. “Sam—-“ _

_ There was no warning. Sam gurgled, pitched forward, and unleashed a torrent of sick over his shoes. _

_ The reaction of anyone close enough to notice was immediate; cries of disgust rang out, and people began scrambling back from the mess. Clare’s first instinct was to move out of the way too — but she couldn’t, not with Sam doubled over, clinging to the bar just to keep his balance. His entire body shuddered. He heaved again, pressing a hand over his mouth. Clare’s shock released her just enough to rub his shoulder. _

_ “Oh god,” he groaned, and hiccuped. “I’m so — sorry. So sorry. I don’t know…” _

_ “It’s alright. You’re alright, honey,” Clare soothed, picking up a soothing rhythm over his shoulder blades. Her eyes were wide. Vomit clung to Sam’s wet lips in strings; when he shuddered again, a bit more sick splashed at his feet. She was not disgusted by his state, perhaps because she was still too stunned to feel it. She hushed him when he tried to apologize again; when she lifted her head, wide eyes appealed for help around the room. _

_ Hazel was the one who stepped up. She raised her hands and voice, gesturing the gaping crowd back. On her order, this section of the club was quickly cleared, and someone scrambled over to clean up. She owned half of this club; it was her job to see problems taken care of. Hazel Delancey was not a neglectful hostess, nor a poor friend. _

_ “Don’t know where it came from,” Sam murmured. “Just feel sick…” _

_ This was their cue to go. Clare pulled him close, starting to usher him away. Nosy onlookers gave them a wide berth. _

_ “Is he going to be okay?” Pearl’s shrill voice rose out of the crowd. She clung close to Mitt, who clearly wanted to help comfort his friend, but was distracted by obligation to his girlfriend. Clare flashed the couple a close-lipped smile of reassurance. _

_ “You’ll be fine,” she said, to Sam rather than anyone else. “It’s alright. You’re going to be just fine.” _

_ Sam clung to her even after they slipped out of the speakeasy and back into the cool night air. Clare supported him each step of the way. Her words were level and reassuring, yet each rattle of her nerves seemed to reverberate through her whole body. There was no disguising it. As Sam slipped back into the car, she turned away to avoid looking at him. _

_ The look of shock when he doubled over could not compare to the panic on his face, once all was done — the sheer confusion, the pain and horror too evident in his expressive eyes. She had never seen Sam look so frightened in her life. _

_ Clare prayed her reassurances would ring true… because all she knew for sure was that she never wanted to see Sam look so horrified again. _

* * *

 

“That was the first time,” concluded Clare. “The first time he got sick. It got worse. Sore throats, nausea, even fevers… he was up and down for a few weeks. Until…”

Her head lowered. For a moment, she did not seem capable of lifting it.

Lennox’s frown only deepened as the story settled in. “He must have been seeing a doctor.”

“They said… it was nothing serious. Just some internal problems, some kind of flu… that he’d be fine.” Clare drew in a breath. “They all said he’d be fine.”

Suddenly, it was uncomfortable to be in the same room as the accused poisoner. The tremor in her voice rattled each detective in different ways. Shapiro took a few steps backwards, while Lennox straightened up, and Cross nodded.

“Alright, Miss Jordan. We’re going to talk to his doctor. We’ll see what he has to say about —“

A sudden hammering on the door made everyone jump. As Detective Shapiro clutched his chest, Cross frowned and cut through the room in three easy strides to throw the door open.

A harried secretary offered rushed apologies. “There’s a man here to see you, sir. It’s very urgent."

“ _ How _ urgent?” Cross demanded, voice low. He did not appreciate being interrupted while doing his job.

“ _ Urgent _ as in he won’t leave, sir. And he’s very insistent, and very agitated, and he wants to talk to whomever is in charge, sir, and I’m  _ not in charge  _ —“

Before the secretary could dissolve into a puddle of harassed tears, Cross slipped out of the room and shut the door behind him. The cause of the interruption was immediately apparent. Leaning against one of the desks, Morris Rosen’s sharp gaze found him immediately.

“You! Are you the one who’s locked up my niece?”

Lieutenant Cross took a deep breath.

“This isn’t the best time, sir.”

“Damn right, it isn’t the best time! When is the best time, once she’s already gotten comfortable in her cell?” Morris slammed a hand down in front of him; the noise echoed through the crowded police station. Every word came out rushed, like he wasn’t sure he’d be able to say it in time. He bore all the indications of a cool-tempered man pushed to the brink of eruption by some incendiary trigger.

“Not at all, Detective. No, sir. Not today.” The outburst seemed to have drained a bit of his ire. Morris shook his head. “We need to have a talk. Clare didn’t do this.”

“Sir, we are looking into —“

“If that boy was poisoned,” declared their prime suspect’s uncle, “I know who did it.”


End file.
